


all is dark and doubtful

by secretfeanorian



Series: the worst things in life come free to us [22]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, The Avengers are there, author does not know how press conferences work, just not gonna tag them all, mostly because they're just background decorations tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 04:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretfeanorian/pseuds/secretfeanorian
Summary: A thousand horrible thoughts rise up within him; a thousand nighttime terrors. He shakes from the weight of them trying to escape. He says nothing.





	all is dark and doubtful

**Author's Note:**

> So after 4 years and several comments, I decided I really did want to finish this, so I'm going to try. No promises on the quality though lol. The only thing I feel I should really mention is my perception and interpretation of several things has changed (how old Maglor is, how many Elves are still left in Middle Earth, to name a few) so to avoid rewriting old pieces, I will try to stick to those older views, but the new ones might slip in and therefore contradict lines from previous pieces. It will also ignore anything post-Winter Soldier since nothing else was out the last time I was writing this and it'll get too confusing trying to incorporate those things right away. Also the whole thing is deliberately brief; part of the reason I stopped writing this was because I'd written myself into a corner with that damn press conference. This piece is probably awful, but I'm hoping I might be able to go back to writing these oneshots now that it's out of the way. We'll see though; no promises. 
> 
> There was also a lot more going on in the press conference than written but my excuse for not writing it was this was a minor nightmare to get out and I wouldn't have finished if I'd tried to be more in depth. The in-story excuse is Maglor was stress-zoning out.

 

_Grief is forever. It doesn’t go away. It becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath._

* * *

_  
_ Dawn finds Maglor sitting on the floor beside his bed, knees pressed against his chest. At some point during the night, he had retreated back there, the presence of others close by suddenly too much. For now, it is enough to know they are in the same building. His breaths are still shaky, and the returning light fails to chase away the night terrors.  
  
He feels a hand land on his shoulder and flinches. Steve stands above him, looking apologetic. “That time already?” he wants to ask, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he just nods. When he pulls himself to his feet, the shaking fades into the background.  
  
Only a few hours later, Maglor files into the conference room after the other Avengers as directed. There are only a handful of reporters present, which is rare, and he suspects it may have been deliberate. The camera flashes are still a little overwhelming though. His skin begins to crawl as Steve gives a brief, prepared statement, and he briefly finds himself wishing he had just stayed away. He can't seriously be about to air everything about his past to the entire world. A panic begins to settle into his bones, and he remembers with terrible certainty that he doesn’t belong here, in the open, known. He belongs alone and forsaken; never to come again into civilization. The panic rises up and chokes him. No one seems to notice, but as his eyes sweep around the room, he begins to feel someone watching him. When he focuses on the source, Daeron is watching him from the back of the room. The unexpected sight makes Maglor pause, panic forgotten. There is something almost like concern in the Sinda’s eyes, but that can’t be right.  
  
Out of nowhere, he feels someone nudge him and realizes that the room has fallen silent. Waiting for him to respond. He clears his throat awkwardly and leans forward, palms clammy. “Could you repeat that?” He asks, voice seeming to echo through the room.  
  
“You had called yourself a Feanorian back in-” There is a brief moment where the reporter seems unsure what to say, but then he presses on. “Previously, you had identified yourself as Quendi. What exactly is the distinction between the two?”  
  
The question feels an obvious one to Maglor; it must’ve been clear that “Feanorian” was in reference to some sort of faction. The man must want him to clarify what he had meant by the word itself. For a second, he considers giving a sarcastic answer, but the sensible part of him quickly shoots that idea down. “Feanorian is a family name.” He answers, voice soft and a little shaky. “My father’s name was Feanor…it was also used to refer to the people who followed our banner.”  
  
“And what exactly where these ‘kinslayings’? The incidents that turned into ‘genocide’?” Another, angrier voice calls out and Maglor’s expression twists without meaning to.  
  
“The kinslayings were…horrible things brought about because of that Void-damned Oath and the unshakable loyalty of those who followed my family, but they were _not_ massacres designed to wipe a people from existence. And swords were not drawn until diplomacy had failed and all peaceful attempts to recover the Silmaril were met with hostility.” He pauses, then adds almost as an afterthought, “Not that that justifies slaughter over…breaking it.” His hands begin to shake again and he balls them into fists to try and steady them.  
  
“Oath?” Someone asks and they begin to shake again and harder.  
  
A small, bitter smile crosses his face. For a moment, the words that had destroyed them all bubble up and he has to fight to keep them down. Almost by accident, his eyes find Daeron’s again and his pulse calms again.  
  
“An unbreakable Oath, sworn in grief and rage, to reclaim what Morgoth had taken no matter the method or cost. It was never truly meant to be brought to bear against anyone _but_ Morgoth, but the wording was anyone and one of the Silmarils was taken from Morgoth by…someone unconnected to my family. When she and her son after her both refused to hand it over, our Oath eventually forced us and again with her granddaughter.” He crosses, then uncrosses his knees, unable to shake the urge to flee. “The first kinslaying was…different…I’m not sure anyone realized it was even…” His throat closes up abruptly and he has to rub his face several times before he can breathe again.  
  
Either the reporters have all suddenly gained the ability to pity, or someone is silencing them with a nasty glare, but no one says anything for the minute it takes him to compose himself.  
  
“Could you not just…break the oath?” The same woman asks after he’s calmed and Maglor shakes his head.  
  
“Some of us tried. After the second kinslaying, my elder brother publicly forswore it and insisted we not pursue the Silmaril held by the Sindar. He held off the Oath…longer than any of us thought he would, but it won out and he was not the same after, all the way until his death. Less rational.” He reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose, almost trying to push away the unpleasant memories. “The Oath had sort of a will of its own and going against it was like trying frantically to swim against rapids.” The analogy doesn’t seem to quite fit; not adequately conveying the sheer impossibility of attempting to defy the Oath so firmly wrapped around their souls.  
  
The environment in the room feels deeply hostile and Maglor tries desperately to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground.  
  
“Did the Oath end up fulfilled or broken?” A familiar voice breaks the silence and Maglor’s eyes snap up. Then they narrow.  
  
“The Oath is…” Maglor rubs his face with his hand, fully aware of what Daeron is trying to do. “Technically neither broken nor fulfilled. In a state of in between where it can’t really be fulfilled any longer.”  
  
“So broken?” The room has almost entirely on Daeron now, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. If he has, he’s ignoring it very well. Maglor can practically feel the confusion coming off of everyone in the room but Natasha. In the back of his mind, he wonders why, then remembers her saying Daeron had approached her before when he had disappeared.  
  
Daeron doesn’t even wait for an answer before soldiering on. “What was the cost of breaking that Oath?”  
  
Maglor can’t breathe. He feels a familiar darkness closing over his mind and the sensation of something choking him. It’s as if the Oath has come for him again. Then he feels a hand close around his and light and sound rush back. “Everything,” He says finally, voice barely a whisper. “Every thought, every memory. Every desire. Anything more than a vague knowledge of how to survive. A faint muscle memory all that was left. Everything but the Oath, gone. Hollowed out…”  
  
Under the weight of the words, he meets Daeron’s eyes again and they seem to say “I know. I saw.”  
  
His fists are clenched so tightly, he can barely feel them at all. His breathing is shaky. He does not say, “Sometimes I hear the screaming from Alqualonde. Not Doriath. Not Sirion. I had closed myself off by then. Just Alqualonde. Always Alqualonde.” He does not say, “Sometimes I can still smell the smoke from the boats at Losgar. Sometimes I can taste the ashes in the air and I spend hours trying to find the source only to realize it’s all in my head. Only it’s not. It happened. It’s a memory.” He does not say, “In the mornings when I wake, my hands are covered in blood. I look again and they are clean, but are they really? How could they be? How could they ever be clean again?” He does not say, “I can’t decide which would be worse, my still living family hating me, or their forgiveness. Never seeing my brothers and father again or seeing them still maddened forever.” A thousand horrible thoughts rise up within him; a thousand nighttime terrors. He shakes from the weight of them trying to escape. He says nothing.  
  
Maglor doesn’t remember most of the rest of the press conference. He has a vague memory of absolute silence following his answer, of Daeron slipping out of the room once the attention is off him, of answering a few more questions, but details elude him. He thinks that perhaps losing time again should frighten him. It doesn’t. All he can feel is a deep relief that the conference is over.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't betaed (like all my stuff lol) and barely proof-read, I'll get around to that when I can stand looking at it. I apologize for all the mistakes that are surely in here. I just wanted to post it before I lost the nerve to.


End file.
